As I start of what appears to be a “mild” depression for myself, I have come to some unsettling conclusions. My luck with women or lack thereof, is heading for record  “’05-like” figures and for the first time, I am truly not that upset about it. I have reached the point in which that situation deserves self deprivating laughter, so bad that I am reaching for anything, confessing love, damaging platonic friendships and even more shamefully, calling up that promiscuous lady I once met at a benigans. On top of all this, asking my so-called friends to do stuff on the weekends is all of a sudden some daunting task. You know that insecurity driven “game” we play when we begin to question our friendships?  The one where you go through this period which you refuse to call anybody and only wait until they call you? Yea, well let’s just say I’ve been playing out this game and the results have been overwhelmingly upsetting. Nobody out here would care if I picked up and moved away only to ask four months later “Where’s Abernathy been?” like I was a cat that snuck out of the house or something. Aside from the occasional weekend, life in Tampa appears fruitless, mundane and uneventful; always the same people, same places, same shitty neighborhoods, people talking about the same things.  I am sick of this awful area in which I call home. I live in Tampa Bay, arguably amongst one of the most desirable areas to live in the country; next to world-class beaches, a burgeoning economic climate and frankly, one of the better party scenes that I’ve seen anywhere. So why am I acting like I live somewhere in Kansas? Do they not have shitty bars and impoverished areas littered with strip malls in Anywhere, USA? A change of scenery will broaden my horizons and clear my head, which is why in hopes of revitalizing this last year of college, I have come to the conclusion that life for me will be better on the other side of the bridge, in St. Pete. Not only do I generally “enjoy” St. Pete more than Tampa( I.E.  its lack of bumper-to-bumper commutes, actual sense of a shred of community, buildings that actually look like they weren’t made from a cookie cutter….etc)  but it is also where I have worked for the past three years ,where my family is and where I strangely often find myself gravitating towards. Sure, I will miss out on a touch of that “college experience” but the fact is, I’m 23 years old and not to sound like I feel old (but I do feel old, I really do…Is that pathetic?!?!?) perhaps it’s high time to grow up and distance myself from this college environment. I need to be much more active in my lifestyle or I will continue to become another stereotype, another college student who is:

a)       Severely in debt

b)       Lacks any sort of REAL tangible relationships

c)       Works all week, just for the weekend

d)       Out of touch with reality

 

 

In the meantime, while the lamest summer of my life continues to unravel (man I am one uplifting mofo am I not?), I have decided to write an autobiography about my life  despite its so-called obscurity. I realized the potential for me to recollect the other day talking to an old friend about the sheer multitude of hilarious, awkward and uncomfortable situations I have been in is uncommon and despite me not having  on any awards, no peace prizes, I feel it is going to help me as a person by documenting my experiences in a novel of my life. I know it sounds stupid and like some sort of sick self-admiring enterprise, but if you understand me as a person, you know why I feel I must write this. I know, I haven’t been through much hardship, have rarely dealt with any sort of death or loss, never had a terminal disease, won an Oscar blah blah blah but I really feel I may be on to something with this. For those keeping track, I had written 40 or so pages about a fictional character named Winslow Taylor (awful name isn’t it?) who becomes this hero for the American public only to later find himself a homeless washed up old man. However, during this mild bout with depression, I cannot fuel the creativity it takes to write anything let alone a fictional piece, especially to get any sort of recognition from the 20 or so people who read this thing. No I need to write for myself and only myself, which is why in hopes of opening some sort of Pandora’s box of memories, the potential of unraveling this vast blanket of experiences to the world, I will write a novel this little life of mine (I’m gonna let it shine…had to). It may take a month, a year, even ten years. Truth is, I cannot sit on here any longer whining about things (see current post…). In the meantime, please enjoy the music while your party is reached….